November 17

We had our third holiday of Autumn this week, variously called 'International Youth Day', 'Struggle for Freedom and Democracy Day', 'Independence from Communism' (the extended falling of the Berlin Wall). It is convenient that our holidays follow chronology:
      Sept 28: St Vaclav Day (from 935 AD)
      Oct 28: First Republic (from 1919)
      Nov 17: as described above (from 1939 and 1989)

The poem below is not a commemoration--Jon's gift of Poetry magazine had a writer warm about too many poems in that ilk;)--but a reflection on a late morning walk when rifle shots shattered the serenity. Kiev was on my mind, a venue that has reaped two cross-country championships over the years, a city one parent deemed to dangerous to send her child; the 'less dangerous' places of the world was also on my mind, as well as the thrown-together poem I posted that day. Then, suddenly, our local and elusive wild boar gave the day and 'Day' and season a different consideration.

            November 17

Paint with any given color

than fire-engine red,

fill a playground flush with voices

belying kids now dead,

window visits with each other

(comme ci comme ça they end),

overrun the countless choices

these seasons cannot mend.

Blasts across the river echo

into squeals of wild boar,

a month shy of the solstice, days

were darkening before,

and now they’ll never see the glow

of sunrise in the spring,

rains for which an excavator prays

and joys new squealers bring.

Sniff to empathize the dog’s walk

and size up where you stand,

mere mammals on a mothership

floating through the quicksand,

looking for occasions to talk

with creatures bound and free,

I hear the hunters’ shots and grip

the collar pressed beside me.

annus miribilus

I remember starkly Queen Elizabeth delivering a speech in 1992--the year before I'd join her landmass, more or less--and the 'annus horribilis' she declared, incognizant of Paris paparazzi taking all her perceived messiness to another level. It must be hard to be a queen not-in-charge of anything.

Our plebeian family could declare 2015 one way or another. I'm pleased Mom has channeled the Seraphim--the guardian angels that affirm, "where two or three are gathered in my name," and likely hang around for isolated souls who trust in God. We've had our needs for hospitals in 2015; we've also witnessed miracles, on the levels of Lazarus and oil lamps.

From our side, the year has provided for Katerina's better back, Josef's band performing to 400, Ben enjoying his art school, Emma grooving generally, me returning to Kiev for a cross-country championship, Bronko being a dog's dog, perfectly. We've inexplicably lost almost all our other pets, maybe as a blessing in disguise.

Paris is in our prayers, as well as Ankara, Beirut and countless other sites. Annus horribilis applies in this regard, all the more eschewing whatever Her Highness griped about in 1992. And so my segue, on petulant perspectives...

We were presented with a student perspective of what is 'relevant' in modern education. Try not to gag: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xe6nLVXEC0

Poetry cannot be too easy. Including my current losing streak (now on three):

lowest common denominator

Raging on the internet is a kid

who’s trying to rhyme:

“I was never taught how to vote,

they devoted that time

to defining isotopes.” Indicted,

his teachers hang their heads

or fade away in ‘relevance’.

Enraged a different way, a kid

from Belgium blows up

Paris, flaunting fingerprints like

a robber mocking cops:

catch me if you can!... Excited,

we take that bait and parlay

fitful prayers of petulance.

Self-interest and what defines

the rest of us is forcing

lcd: calculations less inclined to

set our minds coursing

beyond the blind, the sighted,

the guides already codified,

the watchdogs at a dance.

To study that beyond! Bodkins

aren’t required to make

conditions of quietus, whatever

kind of dreams at stake;

we wake and walk benighted,

rushing to a source of light,

buying into circumstance.

Teach, we’ve got to get this right!

Time To Brag

There is, I suppose a time to brag and a time to refrain from bragging. I think the completion of my first marathon qualifies for bragging, but just in case, I am drawn to the sage advice of the Preacher in Ecclesiastes who considers that there is a time for all things under heaven (3:1).

Three verses in particular seem fitting.  In no particular order:  

By Ecclesiastes 3:22, there is nothing better for a person than to enjoy their work, for that is their lot in life.  Amen!  so then...

By verse 13, we are also called to find satisfaction in all our toil, for that is our gift from God. 

And by verse 4 we are told that there is indeed a time to laugh and a time to dance, and I'm inclined not to dance and laugh alone.

This, the journey as much as the run. was work, and it was ultimately satisfying. And I think, even before  the soreness goes away, it is worth the laugh and dance. Or, in this case, the 26.2 oval on my car!

Thank you all for indulging me in my nervousness and my eagerness over the last six months, and for encouraging me along the way at various finish lines during my growing obsession.  I wasn't in the neighborhood for most of you today, but Paul and Nina and Mom, it was great to see you there today. Dick, it was just as fun to see you before and after the race.  You have encouraged me as much as anyone, and now we look forward to seeing you at the farm on Thanksgiving: an even better time and purpose to laugh and dance!

Not to brag, but to invite, my next big race is on June 18th in Duluth, the Grandma's Marathon.  It will be a good opportunity to go visit Greg and Lola, if anyone wants to make the drive with me. And another invite of a smaller sort, if anyone is up for it: join me in Lake Forest on the Saturday after Thanksgiving for the COOL 5K/10K Run.  This will be my fourth year at this event!  COOL is Christian Outreach of Lutherans, which provides a local food pantry and temporary housing for homeless moms with children.    

Anyway, my time was 4:20 today. Not as good as I had once hoped, but I am happy. And there is room for improvement, as long as my legs hold out.

God is good, for giving us time for all things!

- Jon

empiricism

“Research shows” because

I’m sounding smart today

“that gratification that

is instant is—that which

ipso facto is—” pretend to

pause “how the world goes.

And so it goes. The tortoise

thinks it’s won” look at

everyone “some lonely

trek upon another’s stage.

You’d be amazed” and here

gesticulate “…the virtues of

the hare.” there, a thesis

worth the wait, the rest

I’ve heard is silence, or

some such stuff that did

not resonate “The rest the

creature craves is by rights

the nobler race,” research

surely shows “and those

inclined” disposed? “to

looking back at plodding

methodology,” well said

“well, wink away that worry

—today! now! in the chair

you best” comfit/comfort

just google it “inherit.

Let’s demonstrate: lots

of algebra or a longed-for

like” one thumb up “on in-

stagram…” snapchat, what

you will “you make the

choice that makes you

happy—stoked—” brows

up “and begs you back to

satisfy again. Amen?” so then

Wing Language

 

Wing Language

           By Marilyn Jaeger

A serif is a wing, in fonts

Of characters in a text.

They carry the eye more easily

From one word to the next.

I first feared this was beating

A dead horse; let it rest.

Then recalled a book of my father’s

A Winged Horse Anthology – the best

In poetry to nineteen thirty

With Pegasus, winged horse, as theme.

Poetry, words, flying accomplishment

Wings, (serifs),leading on it does seem.

Trodding leafed Mendota paths

l Listened to fragments passing by

Elemental, words reach an ear, like

Angel wings whisp from the sky.

Our words have wings, written or spoke.

How they may lift, or sometimes, suppress.

Take delight in the presence of seraphim:

Words fly to us, God’s angels’, “Yes!”